Stuart Woods - Bel-Air dead

“Believe me,” Eagle said, “if she is, then you should not take that as reassuring.”

“But if she is in bed with Prince, why would she call and say that she has a good opinion of me?”

“Stone, I would normally say that anyone of whom Barbara has a good opinion is not worth knowing or is, at the very least, someone to steer clear of.”

“She must understand that if she’s in bed with Prince, I’m her opponent.”

“Being Barbara’s opponent is a dangerous position to hold,” Eagle said. “I warn you to proceed with extreme caution, should you find yourself dealing with her.”

“That seems like sound advice, coming from someone who should know.”

“You are correct,” Eagle said. “If she should communicate with you again, I urge you to call me for advice, and whatever you do, don’t make her angry. She is thin-skinned, and there are people whose conduct she has taken amiss who are now no longer with us. I count myself very nearly among that lot.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stone said.

“I have to run, Stone. Watch yourself.” Eagle hung up.

Stone sat there, more baffled than before.

The shadows lengthened, and Stone still sat there alone. Arrington was, apparently, having a long afternoon nap, and Dino had not reappeared. Then Manolo came striding onto the patio, followed by Rick Barron.

“Excuse me, Mr. Stone,” the butler said, “Mr. Barron for you.”

Stone stood and shook Rick’s hand and took the opportunity to examine him closely. He looked very tense. “Please sit down, Rick,” he said, wondering if it were a good idea to offer a man of his age a drink at this time of day.

“May I have a large scotch?” Rick asked.

Problem solved, Stone nodded to Manolo, who went in search of whisky and returned shortly with a glass.

Rick took a deep draught of the scotch. “I just had a call from the attorney for Jennifer Harris’s estate,” he said. “The trustees ordered him to accept the offer for her stock without waiting for further bids. We’ve lost it.”

“Shit!” Stone said. “Manolo, please bring me a large Knob Creek on the rocks.”

Rick sighed. “By my count, we now have forty-eight percent of the votes.”

“That’s my count, too,” Stone said, taking a gulp of his bourbon.

Stone and Rick sat, each staring silently into the middle distance. The only sound was the occasional clink of ice cubes as they imbibed.

“Hello, Rick!” Arrington said cheerfully, as she swept onto the patio in a silk pajama suit. Then she stopped in her tracks. “Did somebody die?”

“Not yet,” Stone said. He explained what had occurred.

“Only forty-eight percent?” she asked, taking a seat. “Manolo, bring me a large rum and tonic! No, make it a dark and stormy.”

“What’s a dark and stormy?” Rick asked.

“It’s Gosling’s Black Seal-a black Bermudan rum-and ginger beer.”

“Oh,” Rick said. He turned to Manolo and swung a finger between himself and Stone. “Refills,” he said.

“What are we going to do?” Arrington asked.

“Good question,” Stone said, staring into his empty glass, which was immediately replaced by Manolo.

“That means you have no answer, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“Pretty much,” Stone said, sipping his new bourbon.

“That’s about the size of it,” Rick said, sipping his own new drink.

“Well, it isn’t the end of the world,” Arrington pointed out.

“It’s the end of my world,” Rick said.

“Oh, Rick, I’m so very sorry,” she said. “That was unfeeling of me.”

“Have we forgotten to talk to anyone with shares?” Stone asked.

Rick shook his head. “I’ve spoken with every single shareholder personally,” he said, “some of them three or four times.”

“There’s still Jack Schmeltzer,” Stone said. “Oh, you didn’t hear that, Rick.”

“I didn’t,” Rick replied. “Have you heard anything from Jack?”

“I’ve left messages at his home and office, but he hasn’t returned my calls,” Stone said. “His secretary said he would be in meetings all day and wouldn’t be able to get back to me before tomorrow morning.”

“I’ve used that excuse myself,” Rick said, “more than a few times, when I didn’t want to talk to someone.”

“Why wouldn’t he want to talk to you?” Arrington asked Stone.

“I think Terry Prince has gotten to him, and he’s embarrassed,” Stone replied. “Maybe I should call Charlene Joiner and ask her to fuck him again.”

“What?” Arrington and Rick said simultaneously.

“It was Charlene who talked him around to voting with us,” Stone said, “after an afternoon in bed.”

“I didn’t know people did that sort of thing anymore,” Arrington said.

“At least as much as ever,” Stone replied, “maybe more.”

Stone’s cell rang, and he picked it up. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Harvey Stein.” He didn’t sound happy.

“Yes, Harvey?”

“I don’t quite know how to tell you this, but there’s a problem with the transfer of Jim Long’s shares in Centurion.”

Stone felt sick. “What kind of a problem, Harvey?”

“It appears that the stock may not have been entirely Jim’s to sell.”

Stone put the phone on speaker and set it on the table. “Rick Barron and Arrington Calder are here. Tell us.”

“It appears that a friend of Jim’s holds a lien on his shares. A Mrs. Charles Grosvenor lent him some money a while back, and he signed a note using the shares as collateral. She neglected to ask for the stock certificate.”

“Who the hell is Mrs. Charles Grosvenor?” Rick asked.

“I’ll explain that later,” Stone said. “Harvey, do you know if Mrs. Grosvenor may have bought some shares from the estate of Jennifer Harris?”

“I’m not sure,” Stein replied.

“Have you spoken with Mrs. Grosvenor?”

“Briefly. I’m afraid I’ll have to refund Mrs. Calder’s money and ask for the share certificate back,” Stein said. “Mrs. Grosvenor wants it before tomorrow’s shareholders’ meeting.”

“Harvey,” Stone said, “have you read the actual note Jim signed?”

“Yes, and I consider it airtight. Jim is very apologetic; he thought he would have Mrs. Grosvenor’s support in selling the shares. I don’t know why he didn’t tell me about the note.”

“I’m sure you understand, Harvey, that I’m going to need to see the note before I can surrender the stock certificate.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t think this is your fault, Harvey,” Stone said.

“I have already taken the liberty of wiring the funds back to Woodman amp; Weld,” Stein said. “May I send someone to pick up the share certificate now? I’ll send along a copy of the note.”

“Yes,” Stone said. He punched the phone off.

“Who is Mrs. Charles Grosvenor?” Arrington asked again.

“From all reliable accounts,” Stone said, “a crazy person.”

“How crazy?”

“A homicidal maniac,” Stone said. He began to explain the woman’s history.

When he had finished Rick said, “I’ve lived a long life and met all sorts of people, but that is the wildest story I have ever heard.”

“Rick,” Arrington said, “is Glenna at home?”

“No, she’s in Santa Barbara; she’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

“Then you’re having dinner here with us,” she said.

“Thank you, Arrington, that’s very kind.”

Stone’s cell phone rang; the caller ID said Woodman amp; Weld.

“Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Bill Eggers.”

“Hey, Bill.”

“Our bank just called; we’ve received a wire transfer of the funds we sent Harvey Stein a few days ago. What’s going on?”